


Friggin' in the Riggin'

by bananabog



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Anal Play, Blowjobs, Domestic Fluff, Fisting, Fluff, Frotting, M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, PWP, Prostate Orgasm, Rimming, Sappy Sap, Slow Sex, for a character who has six fingers there really isn't a lot of fisting fic for him what is this, ford's trust issues, old men being really fucking gay for each other, over-stimulation, pretty much whatever way you can fuck is in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 01:15:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6065326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananabog/pseuds/bananabog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You…” Stanley swallows, coughs nervously. “What?”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“I would like,” Ford repeats, “to fist you. …Eventually. I-If that’s okay.” </i></p><p> </p><p>Post-finale. Established relationship. 23 x 100-word drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friggin' in the Riggin'

**Author's Note:**

> Because come on he has six goddamn fingers where are the fisting fics. WHERE
> 
> Porn without plot. Two brothers. On a ship. Doing the frick frack. 
> 
> The Good Ship Venus never fails to crack me up and that's the only reason it's the title 
> 
> I don't care that it's unrealistic for two almost-seventy-year-old geezers to have the sex energy of teenagers, it's fucking porn, both figuratively and literally

“I’d like to fist you.”

The words are spoken after a long, sleepy stretch of comfortable silence. Stan had been ready to fall through the clouds into dream land, but this jolts him solidly back to earth.

He turns his head to stare at Stanford. The cabin is dark, and he can’t see shit without his glasses, but he swears Ford’s face is brightly pinked.

“You…” Stanley swallows, coughs nervously. “What?”

“I would like,” Ford repeats, “to fist you. …Eventually. I-If that’s okay.”

“…Kinda hard for me to say no to sex with you, Poindexter.”

Stan’s grin is shyly returned.

 x x x

It hounds him like a persistent housefly.

 _Is it happening tonight?_ he thinks, while Ford goes on and on about the ship’s course or something about uncharted territory. _Tomorrow? Is it going to be a regular thing every time we have sex, now?  Does he mean regular fisting, with five fingers, or all six of them? When was the last time we stocked lube? Why aren’t we fucking right now?_

 _“Excuse_ me?”

“You can’t just say ‘I wanna fist ya’ and then _not,_ Ford, god,” Stan gripes.

“…you weren’t paying attention at all, were you.”

“No idea what you’ve said.”

  x x x

Ford’s resolve to keep working folds like wet paper.

The room heats up quickly as the brothers kiss hungrily, clothes hastily discarded, panting as their hands run over sweat-slicked bodies. They spend several minutes rutting insufficiently against each other until Stan claws at Ford’s back, needy.

“Get on with it,” Stan rasps finally. He rocks down against his brother’s lubed fingers – only two inside him so far.

“Patience.” Ford begins scissoring him. Stan’s groans renew at the stretch of it, turn into high whimpers as Ford finds his spot with three digits and goes to town. “I _did_ say ‘eventually’.”

 x x x

Sex had been routine before, but now they had a shared goal, a singular focus, and together both of them work slowly, but surely, and steadily towards its accomplishment.

This isn’t to say their actions during sex _remain_ routine. Ford might love going down through an ordered checklist, but Stan doesn’t.

He makes _damn sure_ Ford is aware of this.  

Ford’s crying, trembling violently beneath him as Stan curls his fingers against his prostate. Stan swipes a hot tongue over and around the stretched circumference of Ford’s hole and savors the shriek of his name as his brother comes apart.

 x x x

“So. Why fisting?”

Ford doesn’t pull away from the telescope, continuing instead to fiddle with the dials and knobs on the instrument.

“Why _not?”_

“Not that there’s an issue, just…” Stan sips his cola. “Figured you had a specific reason, or somethin’, what with all that thinkin’ ya do.”

Ford just shakes his head. “Can’t tell you now,” he mumbles, cheeks tinged. He steps back over to Stan and kisses away the sulk from his lips and brow.  “But I will.”

“‘Eventually’. Yeah… got it.” Stan sighs, not unkindly, and kisses back.

They intertwine their fingers. Ford points out constellations.

 x x x

“That’s four.”

Stan hisses, squirming. _“Shit.”_

He rolls downwards against the invasion, testing, wincing a little at the sting. Ford’s other hand immediately steadies his hips, instructing him to still.

“Okay?” Ford asks, as Stanley visibly tries to relax.

“…Okay. Yeah.” His head tosses against the pillow as Ford begins to gently, minutely surge his slickened fingers in and out of the other, pressed in deep to his knuckles.

He can’t orgasm. Ford ends up withdrawing his fingers and taking Stan into his mouth instead.  

“It wasn’t _bad,”_ he tries to assure a distraught Ford, after, “just... new. You’re fine.”

x x x

Second time’s the charm.

 _“Fuuuck,”_ Stanley moans, long and deliberate, as he thrusts back down onto his own fingers. Ford watches him with darkened eyes from the chair across the bed, erection clearly straining in his pants, but hands folded tightly under his nose. Stan lines up his pinkie, leaving only his thumb, and groans heartily as he feels all four knuckles push past the ring of muscle and slip inside.  

“ _So good_ , Sixer.” He pants as he seeks out his pleasure, watching with lust as Ford finally gives in, palming himself.  “So… oh… _ohhh…!_ God…!”

They come in unison.

 x x x

“I love you.”

It’s raining. It pelts down against the roof of the cabin, like hundreds of drums, and the ship bobs nauseatingly with the waves.

“I love _you,”_ Stan returns sincerely (heartfelt, honest), after a brief quiet. 

This, of course, isn’t news to either of them. But it doesn’t mean neither like hearing nor saying it.

Stan pulls one of Ford’s hands up to his lips and kisses his palm, lacing their fingers together before snuggling deeper into the spoon. Ford wraps his arms tighter around Stanley beneath the blankets, buries his nose into lightening hair, and squeezes comfortingly. 

x x x

Stan’s not even sure he can articulate sounds anymore.

“Stan? You alright?”

He had no idea this was possible. And with their age, no less. Apparently Ford is a real flexible bastard.

“Stan?” Ford sounds worried.

“- _holy fuck_ ,” he manages. It sounds out in a strangled garble.

“I can stop, if it’s – ”

“No!” Stan yelps, almost too quickly. They both flush at his wantonness, but Ford stays as requested, Stan’s cock fully sheathed within him, while five of his six fingers remain buried inside of his brother. “Just – fucking _move,_ Ford, jesus – _move, please!!_ ”

Ford does.

Stanley wails.

 x x x

“I loooooove you,” Stan drawls, giggling.

“Stanley, we’re in _public,”_ Ford hisses. His efforts to shove his brother off are futile. Mostly because Ford’s arms are full of supplies. He’s also still in the midst of paying for them. “I thought I told you to wait in the boat…!”

“Wann’ make ya feel goood,” Stan slurs, apparently still high off endorphins. He grabs for Ford’s crotch. It’s Ford's turn to yelp. “Wann’ make ya feel _good_ like ya made me feel good…”

Ford all but throws his entire wallet at the vendor, apologizing profusely as they make a swift exit. 

 x x x

“ – Worth it.”

Stan’s beam is legendary as he rolls off of Ford, and begins peppering the other’s skin with small, tender kisses.

“ _Oh my god_ ,” Ford agrees.

Ford continues to gasp and twitch under Stan’s administrations, still trembling from the aftershocks of his orgasms. Stan’s mouth comes within range of his own a few times and they exchange sloppy kisses.

“How the hell did you even manage to walk off the boat in this condition,” Ford chokes, laughing as their limbs entangle, “what is _wrong_ with you?”

“You.” Stan gives him a proper kiss. “You’re what’s wrong with me.”

  x x x

“Happy anniversary.”

Ford returns the kiss. He’s confused initially, but glancing at the wall calendar confirms his thoughts.

“A year already,” he murmurs, surprised and warmed. It feels like he’d asked Stan to leave with him only a few months ago.

Stan hums and pulls out a stool opposite his brother.

“I’m, ah…” Stan fidgets, blushing, and Ford’s heart blooms at the rare sight of Stan’s uncertainty. “I know you wanted to go slow, but I think… I think I’d like it to be tonight.”

Stan gives a purposeful glance at Ford’s clasped hands around his mug.

Ford’s breath hitches.

 x x x

He swears Stanley has the entire day planned out.

Ford finds love notes tucked under his seat, behind the helm, scattered around the deck. The locations are endless. How on earth Stanley managed to hide them from him within their limited confines is a mystery.

Ford improvises, not to be bested. Stanley comes back inside from fishing in the evening to only-somewhat-burnt fillets, slightly undercooked fries, and two glasses of dark wine.  

“Would have scattered petals too, but roses don’t grow on oceans.” Ford pulls Stan’s chair out for him, eyes twinkling from the flickering candles.

Stan kisses him deeply.

x x x

Stan starts flicking soap suds at him while they do the dishes.

Ford steadfastly ignores the childish taunting. At least, he does until Stan straight out dumps a wine glass of dishwater on him. 

Stan roars with unbridled laughter as Ford chases him up onto the deck. They’re kids all over again. Ford finally catches him, and they grapple with each other against the walls.

“I surrender,” he wheezes, as Ford manhandles him over the boat’s edge (his grip on Stan stays strong, secure, and Stan knows he has nothing to fear).

They keep laughing even as their lips meet.

x x x

They take their time, lips and tongues moving languidly against the other, as they continue making out leisurely, as they guide each other back to bed.

“Sixer,” Stan groans. Their hips roll lazily together, and both men make muffled noises of pleasure at the other’s hardness.

“Ford,” he moans again, insistently, whining quietly now as Ford swirls his tongue expertly, takes him deep into his throat.

 _“Close,”_ he warns, panting, but Ford is relentless. Stan shouts and bucks as Ford swallows him down.  

“I’m not finished,” Ford whispers. He laps at Stan’s over-sensitized cock and is rewarded with another whimper.

 x x x

Stan is more than capable at this point, but Ford still starts off with a single finger.

Stan squirms impatiently against him as his brother slowly breaches him, rubbing assuredly, teasing Stan as he tenaciously avoids that bundle of nerves.

 _“Ford,”_ Stan wheedles, as Ford gradually, tortuously builds up to two, then three, then four fingers. Stan writhes back against the intrusion, enjoying the slight burn of the stretch. He moans in relief, hard again and leaking pre-cum, as Ford carefully presses in the fifth finger.   

“Love you,” Ford says quietly, kissing him.

He tucks in his thumb and _pushes._

 x x x

There’s some resistance, but between the generous amounts of lube and Ford taking his time to open him up, Stan barely feels any pain.

But oh, he feels.

He _feels._

His mouth opens. He can’t talk. He can’t breathe, as Ford slowly, delicately closes his hand into a fist inside of him, turning slightly so his knuckles – all five of them – brush one at a time against his prostate and -  

“ – kay, Stanley?” he hears, somewhere far away. “Does it hurt, are you – ”

 _“Oh,”_ he chokes. “Oh, _god.”_

 Stanford’s hand is inside him.

_Stanford’s hand is inside him._

x x x

Stanley doesn’t seem to be aware that he’s crying.

Stanford is terrified.

“Stanley, I’m going to stop if – ”

“ _Stop and I’ll_ kill _you."_  Stan almost seems to be _suffocating_ on Ford’s fist inside of him as he chokes and gasps, expression toeing the blurred line between pain and pleasure. “S-Stanford… _Stanford, oh god_. Move. _Please, move…!_ ”

Ford obliges, thrusting slowly and cautiously into Stanley. He swallows, his own prick bobbing painfully between his legs, as he watches Stan’s eyes roll up into his head, and his hands flail atop the sheets.

No wonder they call it the little death.

 x x x

Stanley comes without warning, without being touched, mouth twisted open in a silent cry as he stripes up his belly, as he splatters hot and messy across Ford’s hands.

“Don’t stop,” Stanley begs, when Ford moves to withdraw.

_“‘Don’t’…?!”_

“Good.” Stan swivels down onto his hand and Ford stammers, moaning at the sight. “Feels so _good,_ Ford, I – f-fuck – so _good,_ so _f-fucking good!_ Fuck me!”

Ford swears Stanley’s screams are loud enough to violate the Hadalpelagic Zone, as his brother comes, _again,_ over-stimulated, babbling his name in a frenzied, broken litany.  

Ford lasts only two strokes before he’s gone.

x x x

He lets them catch their breath before he withdraws. Stan winces and moans a little as Stanford eases his hand out, still feeling wonderfully raw inside, and they both sigh in disappointed relief when Ford’s hand finally slips out from him with an obscene noise that Stan is going to commit to memory for a very long time.

Stan giggles, as Ford wobbles off to fetch some wet towels. He pulls close Ford to him, and starts planting kisses all over, even while Ford carefully cleans him up.

“Happy fuckin’ anniversary.”

Ford snorts. “Literally.”   

Stan passes out swiftly after that.

x x x

“Are ya gonna tell me why?”

They can hear the seagulls tittering outside. They’ve slept very well. He imagines the sun, dappling cream yellow across the glass blue of the ocean.

Ford shifts onto his side so he can look at Stan more comfortably (who insists he’s bedridden for the day, or even the week). Stan’s eyes are crinkled at the edges.

“It’s… a form of trust,” Ford admits. He fidgets under Stan’s sobering gaze. “That you’d let me be that intimate with you… _thank you_ , Stanley.”

“Oh my _god,”_   Stan groans, frustrated. “You dumbass…”  

He crushes Ford to him.

x x x

“It’s more than that,” Ford protests, as Stan attempts to hug the air out of him, “it’s – well, I’ve… _read,_ that it’s meant to be an _amazing_ experience, a-and I just… Forty years I took you for granted, Stanley. I want to make up for that so _badly…”_

“You’re an idiot,” Stan growls. He kisses him roughly. “I _love_ ya, you knucklehead. Always have. And we don’t gotta lotta years left. I say we focus on the present. And I’m pretty damn _happy_ with the present as it is.”

Stan weaves their fingers again and squeezes hard. Ford chuckles.

“…alright.”

 x x x

It’s rare for them, but they skip breakfast that day, content to just laze together in bed.

“Fuck,” Stan groans suddenly. “We still need to do dishes.”

Ford grunts, but doesn’t move either. “And whose fault was that?” he grouses.

Stan’s laughter rumbles out of him. “Hey,” he grins, pulling Ford flush against him. “How’s about I do that to ya, sometime? Ya know… _eventually.”_

Ford makes a noise like a wounded animal and Stan snickers, as Ford’s cock twitches with sleepy interest against his thigh.

“…eventually,” Ford concedes, face red.

“‘Eventually’,” Stan parrots, rolling his eyes.  

They’re fucking tonight.


End file.
